


How Dean Got The Impala

by Anilkex



Series: You Are The Third Winchester [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Impala, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Third Winchester, Third Winchester AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6019309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anilkex/pseuds/Anilkex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third Winchester AU - my version of how Dean gets the Impala from John.</p>
<p>Simple Dean sickfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Dean Got The Impala

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexys52](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexys52/gifts).



> This was a gift, so it got bumped to the front. I know there are other stories/threads that need to be updated. I have 8 open tabs on my computer...just not a lot of time to get to them.

 

I ran along the riverbank as fast as possible, given the whole fucking thing was frozen. Turned out, it was a bitch and a half to _run_ on ice while simultaneously scanning the spaces between _floating chunks_ of it in the water.

Luckily, I was awesome.

And only slipped three times.

...Maybe four.

I always got stuck doing shit like escorting rescued victims to safety or grabbing more ammo from the Impala while on a hunt. Almost _every_ , _fucking_ , _time_ I left them, something batshit stupid happened. Maybe when I turned twenty next month, I'd be allowed to stick around and, I dunno, prevent it.

When I heard Dad yelling Dean's name, followed by a generic yelp, followed by a loud _crack!_ and a splash, I knew it was another one of those glorious moments.

So there I was, running and slipping, eyes darting between the water and the ground, forcing myself _not_ to panic.

_Riiiiight_.

Just around the bend up ahead, someone was trying to climb out of the water.

I ran faster.

"Daaaa...d?"

Oh.

Not a some _one_...a some _thing_. A _flipper_ pushed forward, burrowing into the ground to provide stability as the rest clawed its way out of the water. It was bleeding heavily, blood gushing from multiple spots, staining the snow.

Behind it, I saw two heads burst through the water's surface, gasping for air. While sliding to a halt, I pulled out my gun and unloaded a whole clip into it.

A gurgling wail echoed through the woods, and the bunyip slumped to the ground. Dad pushed his way forward, driving his knife into it (probably an eye), yelling for Dean to get out of the water.

_Hooray_...we won…

**xxxxx**

I had to drive back to the motel. My two sodden cats shivered and chattered the entire ride, Dad in the passenger seat, Dean in the back. There was only one blanket in the trunk - I gave away our second to the victims.

Bad timing, huh?

Dean insisted Dad take it. Dad ordered Dean to take it. I cut it in half with my Bowie knife and shoved it at them, growling, "Don't be stupid!"

Dean was doing his "I'm fine" routine before the door to our room clicked shut, but Dad wasn't having any of it.

"D-D-Dean! G-g-get your ass in the shower. N-n-n-now!"

It took a lot of effort not to laugh at the stern face and chattering teeth.

Shoulders sagging, Dean snatched his duffel and went to the bathroom.

"So, what happened?" I asked, rooting around my own bag for clean clothes.

Dad let out a breath (albeit choppy) before answering. "The bunyip s-slammed its t-t-tail on the b-bank. The vibration made Dean slip into the water, and now he's…" He vaguely waved his hand around. "You know."

Yeah, I knew.

Only John Winchester would be nonchalant about stabbing a fucking bunyip while trying to save his son in a frozen river.

Once Dad was dry, he pretty much had the whole body shiver/teeth chatter thing under control. I was willing to bet that the three shots of bourbon helped on some level. By the time Dean got out of the shower, Dad went in.

"Decide what you want to eat, and I'll pick it up when I'm done."

Dean nodded, so I answered, "Will do."

Once the bathroom door clicked shut, Dean dropped his duffel (okay, maybe threw it…) into a corner. He was wearing a t-shirt and sweats, wet hair dripping onto his shoulders. Spying his sweatshirt hanging off a chair, I snagged it.

"Hey - put this on." I tossed it over when he looked up, glad that for once, he wasn't arguing. But on the downside, he wasn't saying much of anything.

"How're you doing?" I asked, bracing myself for the inevitable…

"I'm fine. Just tired."

...denial.

Okee doke, I could deal with denial. It _was_ a Winchester family trait, after all.

"Okay," was all I said in response, knowing that Dean needed his space.

Vigorously, Dean ran a towel over his head a few times, soaking up most of the remaining water. On the last pass over his head, he paused. Both shoulders tensed, his chest inflated, and two harsh sneezes landed into the cloth.

I raised an eyebrow. "Bless you!"

He sniffled, grimacing as he used the towel to wipe his nose. "If I fucking get sick from this, I'll be so goddamn pissed."

_Whoa_. Admission that it was possible? Be still my heart.

I gestured at the bed. "Get under the covers and warm up. You're still shivering."

Nodding, Dean crawled into bed, tugging the covers up to his neck with slightly jerky movements. Being a good sister, I helped tuck him in, earning a almighty eyeroll which I graciously ignored. I even gave him the remote.

"What do you want to eat?" I asked, making sure I had everything for my own shower.

Dean shrugged, flipping through all five channels like a pro. "I don't care."

"Ice cream?"

"Fuck off."

**xxxxx**

The next hunt took us to a new town, complete with the usual motel, diner, bar setup. Nice to know that waiting behind every new adventure was the same old shit.

_This_ adventure was a stupid old spirit, but this stupid old spirit required a ridiculous amount of research. Couldn't find the body. Couldn't track the family. Couldn't trace hardly any details on this case, but the damn thing already killed two people.

At least we knew it was a spirit.

The library was actually a decent size, equipped with all the right technology to make research go. So naturally, it figured that only half of the records we needed to sort through were digitized...and still unsearchable. The nice librarian explained that while many records were digital, they still needed to be gone through manually, because the database was still being built.

_Hooray…_

We crammed into the space near one of the computers, ancient record books stacked high offsetting the many files online.

After half an hour of pouring over papers, I noticed Dean shifting in his seat, like a little kid needing to pee. At first it was little movements - crossing and uncrossing his legs, twisting a little to adjust how much of his ass bore his weight. But then it got more pronounced, complete with a couple frustrated sighs and rough passes of hands through his hair.

A quick glance at Dad told me he was totally immersed in digging through the data, so I kicked Dean under the table, raising my eyebrows when he looked up, irritated.

_You okay?_

His expression revealed he had no idea why I was asking. He rolled his eyes.

_Bored as fuck._

Yeah, okay, it _was_ boring. But I wasn't buying that there was no other reason for the fidgeting.

Fifteen minutes after that, came the first sign. Dean was flipping through newspaper clippings when he just froze in place, hand poised over a page. In one fluid movement, he brought up his arm, sneezing into the crook, soft and fast, sniffling a couple times before his eyes darted to Dad. Shoulders tense, the arm came back up and he stifled another.

No response from Dad.

Dean's eyes met mine. A quick shake of his head, and he was back at the book, acting like nothing happened.

But I knew better. It was only a matter of time.

Over the next couple hours, the bandana made an appearance several times, scrubbing back and forth under his nose. A couple sneezes escaped despite his efforts to keep them in, caught in the bandana unacknowledged.

My blessing him would draw attention from Dad, which wouldn't help the situation at all. So I bit my tongue, pretending everything was peachy. A few sneezes wasn't a big deal.

"Yes!" Dad softly exclaimed, swiveling an impossibly large book so we could read the entry. "There he is - Charlie Yearling, accidental drowning in his bathtub."

We all paused at that.

"Anyway, looks like he was cremated, which means there's gotta be something in that house."

Leaning back, I said, "Maybe even in the pipes? Like, if something went down the drain a little and got stuck?"

Dad pointed at me. "Good thinking. Okay, I'll make some copies while you put this shit away. Then we'll figure out how we're gonna get in."

We started packing up the books and papers. Without making eye contact, Dad casually raised his chin at me. "That okay?"

My eyes narrowed. "Yeah, of course. Why?"

Dad shrugged. "Just making sure." He turned to Dean. "You?"

Dean's eyes flickered to me before answering. "Ready when you are."

"Good. Let's get going."

Dean and I carried everything to the nice library lady, mostly patiently waiting for her to check everything in...one fucking item at a goddamn time. Dean was leaning against the counter, brow furrowed, rolling his head from side to side. A quick peek over my shoulder showed no sign of Dad, so I casually ran my hand up and down his back, pressing lightly against stiff muscles.

He made this sound that was a cross between a sigh and a whimper. "Gonna make it?" I didn't bother asking if he was okay, we both knew he wasn't.

Dean ran a hand down his face, blinking exaggeratedly. "Yeah. I dunno. I'm just _achy_." To prove his point, he rotated his shoulder with a grimace.

"Shoulder still sore?" We both jumped at Dad's voice. _Jesus_ \- where'd he come from?

"Uh...yessir," Dean replied, straightening up.

Dad made a sympathy face. "I'm not surprised. You hit that ice pretty hard."

The librarian declared us good to go, so we headed back to the Impala.

Dad jingled the keys. "Tell you what - I'll drop you two off at the motel, so Kate can fix up your shoulder. I'll scout out this address and pick up dinner. We'll come up with a plan when I get back, then take care of Mr. Yearling together."

He used that Dad trick, where the tone sounded like he was running an idea past you and he wanted your input, but the words said otherwise. _Do as I say._ And he was clever, too. He wasn't excluding us from the hunt, just the reconnaissance. We couldn't bitch about that.

"That works, Dad," I said, subtly nudging Dean so he'd agree, too. "I'll get him working again."

"Yeah, thanks." That's all Dean got out before dropping back and stifling a sneeze silently behind Dad's back.

Not missing a beat, Dad flipped the keys around his finger. "So...Chinese or burgers?"

**xxxxx**

The second the Impala pulled away, Dean sagged onto the bed with a groan. "He's pissed."

"No, he isn't," I scoffed, retrieving the thermometer from the med kit. "He thinks you're hurt from the bunyip, so go with that." After pressing the button, I nodded at him. "Open up."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't have a temperature."

_Really?_

I arched an eyebrow, using my Sam Face to show how unimpressed I was.

"Don't give me your Sam Face." Dean sighed, looking a little guilty. "Look, I, uh, took it earlier. I don't have a fever, Kate. Like I said, I just ache."

He took his own temperature? Willingly? Well, _crap_.

"Where does it hurt?" I asked softly, moving close, setting the thermometer on the bed. I gently touched his neck, checking for swollen glands.

"Everywhere," he sighed, turning his head this way and that as I prodded. I believed him - it'd been a long time since he tried to bullshit me on how he felt. "I'm tired, too."

"Well...you don't feel warm, but you do look exhausted." I ran my fingers through his hair, smiling when his eyes closed, soaking up how good it felt. I slid into bed behind him, hands on his shoulders, kneading gently.

He slumped a little. "Feels good," he mumbled.

"I'm getting that memo." I worked a couple more minutes, then pointed out, "You're gonna be a hot mess within a day or so...you know that, right?"

Dean sat up at that.

I chuckled more. "Didn't cross your mind, I take it. Luckily this hunt won't be a big deal, then we can lie low for a while. Maybe stop at Bobby's or something so you can get better somewhere nice rather than another motel."

Wiping a hand down his face, Dean stood up. "We still have antibiotics...I'll take some...head this thing off."

My hands dropped to my lap when he moved. Here we go again. " _Dean_. You can do that, sure. But you're already on your way to being sick. We'll tell Dad - "

"We're not telling Dad _anything_ ," he fired back, eyes hard. "I don't want him to know."

Oh, for… "Why? _You're sick._ It's no big deal. He's going to find out anyway."

He shook his head. "Not if we keep it quiet."

"Really?"

Dean sighed, one hand massaging his forehead, the other on his hip. "Kate, please."

"Kate, please what? You're acting like you're sixteen. There's no one you need to impress, here. Just tell him, and - "

"Would you please stop arguing with me over what you think is best, and just help me do this? The man never knows what's going on, and you know it. Unless I puke on his shoes, he won't know a thing. And even then, I could bullshit my way through it. I just…" He sighed, hands dropping to his side. "It's different for me, okay? So would you stop lecturing, and just help?"

There was this small part of me that lasered in on the lecturing bit, insisting that I _wasn't_ lecturing, I was trying to... _okayyyyy_ , I was lecturing. Way to channel Sam, Kate.

More important than that, was Dean's whole demeanor. The expression on his face was all pleading and run down and desperate and earnest...with a sprinkle of discomfort and a need to be taken care of.

How could I turn that down?

"Don't be stupid, of _course_ I'll help you," I promised. "I just don't want you to make it worse." _Or, you know, get anyone killed._ I checked the time. "Dad probably won't be back for a little bit, and he wants to break into that house tonight, so let's get some Advil in you...maybe a quick nap...see if it helps."

He nodded. "Yeah...sounds good. Thanks."

Fucker knew I'd do anything for him.

I dug out the pills, which he swallowed easily, then pushed him into bed. I sat next to him, TV on low, as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Just to make sure I understood what was going on...he wanted to pretend he wasn't sick, while I secretly took care of him, so he could continue pretending he wasn't sick.

Got it.

This was dumb.

**xxxxx**

Dad didn't return for another hour, which let Dean get a decent amount of sleep. I woke him when I heard the Impala, and he quickly retreated to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and force consciousness.

"What'd you get?" I asked Dad when he walked in, stomach rumbling.

"Ditched the Chinese idea...went for the special at that diner, which was beef stew." He shrugged. "Sounded good."

I agreed, and more importantly, it'd probably taste good to Dean while being warm and filling.

Win-win.

While we ate, Dad told us all about the house we were about to break into.

"Well, first off, Yearling's house is _technically_ a house, but more importantly, it's a historical landmark. So...no one lives there. They give tours and stuff during the day a few times a week."

He went on, explaining the layout of the property, details of what we should do, and so on. I listened, but was obsessively keeping an eye on Dean, trying to determine if he was doing anything that would set off Dad's alarms.

A swift kick under the table from Dean (which really hurt, thank you very much) told me I was being _too_ obsessive.

Whoops.

He seemed to be doing okay, actually. Maybe all he needed was the pills and a nap. Maybe I was overreacting.

When Dad went to grab a beer from the mini fridge, Dean stifled two sneezes into a napkin.

Maybe I wasn't.

It was still early, so we ended up hanging out in the room, cleaning weapons, checking supplies, watching silly TV (translation: killing time) until it was about midnight. Dean and Dad talked on and off about all sorts of random shit. Dean gave no indication that he was sick, and Dad certainly had no idea.

When we were ready, and the clock was right, we reloaded the car and headed over to the hou-, excuse me, _historial landmark_. The air was chilly, and a soft drizzle began just as we parked. In order to stay covert, Dad parked a couple blocks away, so it was very exciting when we realized we had to walk in the rain.

Collars and hoods up, we walk-sprinted to the building, feeling like we minimized our exposure to the rain, but in fact, we just increased the speed at which we hit it. We wiped streaming water off our faces as Dad picked the lock on the back door.

Luckily for us, the streets and alleyways were completely empty, so no one saw us.

Unluckily for Dean, the interior was as cold as the exterior.

"Where's the heat?" I muttered, shaking the drizzle off my clothes and hair.

Dad snorted, leading the way to the stairs. "Okay...you two check upstairs, I'll check the pipes in the basement."

We all nodded, and split up.

Dean's bandana was in his hand the second Dad stepped out of sight, wiping his face and nose. He was shivering, but then again, so was I.

"Come on," Dean said, head nodding down the hallway. "Bathroom's this way- _h'kshhh!_ "

"Bless you," I whispered, pushing past him into the bathroom. Rolling up my sleeves, I dared ask, "How're you doing?"

He shrugged. "Meds are wearing off."

Meds were... _oh, fuck_. I gaped at him. "Oh, my God. I didn't have you take another dose before we left!" How could I have missed that?

...Like it was _my_ responsibility to make sure he took Advil?

… … _Yes_ , yes, it was. And if it wasn't, I _made_ it my responsibility.

Another fine Winchester family trait.

Dean sniffled, shoving the bandana in his pocket with another shrug. "No big deal. We'll be out of here soon enough. Just get started."

I pried up the drain cover, shining a light into the pipes.

"See anything?"

I shook my head. "No...the pipe curves, so it's really hard to see…" Squinting, different angles, another powerful light source - didn't matter. I couldn't see much without ripping out the whole damn drain.

I was about to say just that, when Dean's phone buzzed. Startled, he pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. "A text from Dad…" His eyes flitted across the screen before he slammed it shut. "Hide. _Now_."

Within a matter of seconds, the light was extinguished, and we were crammed in a bedroom closet. We couldn't see each other's faces, so I couldn't get a hint as to what the hell was going on.

It became obvious soon enough.

High pitched giggling, followed by a deep, throaty rumble, could be heard near the stairs. Uneven footsteps announced the arrival of two people, stumbling their way to the second floor.

"I'm essentially in charge of all the historical buildings, but this one's like my baby. There's something about this house that I absolutely love."

"Mmmm...there's something about _you_ that _I_ absolutely love."

And more giggling. And fumbling. And...sucking noises?

Okay. _Ick_.

More importantly... _why this room?_

I didn't miss the sigh coming from Dean, or its underlying message: _Fuck_.

Figuratively speaking, but I was willing to bet, literally as well.

The closet was empty, but tiny. We had enough room to face each other or stand shoulder to shoulder. Since we were able to lean against a wall, it wasn't unbearable.

Unless you count being forced to listen to what sounded like badly scripted porn acted out on a historically significant afghan as something unbearable.

Somewhere between the completion of cabana boy meets bored heiress and the onset of spanking, Dean fumbled for his bandana, pressing it against his face. I felt his whole body tense, he sucked in some air, then, " _Hhh'Mphphh!_ " He muffled a couple more, bending over, almost knocking me in the head.

Luckily, the happy couple made enough noise (groaning, begging, clarifying questions…) to mask the sneezing, but our heartbeats picked up a pace regardless.

I leaned close, mouth against his ear. "You okay?" The second the words left my lips, I felt it - a slight tremor rippled through him. The best part was him nodding that all was well, as he trembled next to me, the lying asshat.

Remembering not to lecture, but offer support instead, I placed a hand on his shoulder, biting my lip when he thunked his head against my chest.

_I need to get out of here._

_No shit, but I don't think they're done yet…_

A buzzing noise made us both jump, and Dean scrambled to silence his phone. The light from its screen lit up Dean's face, and it was painfully obvious that the pills from earlier completely wore off. His eyes drooped, every breath was through his mouth, and his nose twitched. After reading the screen, he rolled his eyes and started typing a response, pausing when his breath caught.

Unable to get the bandana to his face in time, Dean twisted to the side, " _H'Ngt!_ ", stifling against his shoulder. Another caught him off guard, and he would have dropped the phone if I hadn't snatched it, gasping when my hands touched his - they felt like ice.

Bandana now in place, Dean clamped down on his nose, forcing steadying breaths, forehead on my shoulder. I nuzzled my face against him, and checked the message from Dad.

No, wait... _Sam_.

_**Whatcha up to?** _

Ha. _Haaaaa_. I responded: _**Listening to people bump. Call ya later.**_

The second I pressed _send_ , a second text came, this time from Dad.

_**?** _

I thought about replying with the same message, but sanity took hold at the last minute.

Beside me, Dean sneezed into the bandana.

Shit.

_**Stuck.** _

_**Stuck how?** _

I sighed. _**Trapped while they…**_

It was a several seconds before for his reply. _**Hag Tit**_

What the fuck is _hag tit?_

Dean angled to see the screen, shooting me a _Huh?_ look. I shook my head. _He was your dad first._

I shoved the phone in my pocket and wrapped my arms around my now openly shivering brother. There was still no sign of a fever, but everything else was alarming enough.

From downstairs came a loud crash, prompting a shrill shriek from one of them. I wasn't sure which, to be honest. Dean perked up, weapon drawn and ready in one hand, bandana clutched in the other.

The lovebirds bolted, fleeing downstairs. Cautiously, I opened the door and stepped out, wrinkling my nose at the mess and the toys left behind.

Dean followed, whistling at the sight with a shake of his head. After tucking his gun away, he blew his nose, sniffling in relief. "Let's fide Dad." Not even one joke or smartassed remark about what just happened.

He must feel like complete shit.

We trudged downstairs, finding our bemused father at the bottom of the steps, one hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking.

Oh, the asshole - he was _laughing_.

"What the hell is hag tit?" I asked, smacking him as he freely guffawed at our predicament.

"What?" He asked, confused, nodding at the back door so we'd get moving.

I pulled out Dean's phone, showing him the screen.

Dad laughed even harder. "I meant _hang tight_. I was laughing too hard - must've missed a few keys."

"Yeah, yeah," I flapped a hand at him. But I had to admit, it _was_ funny. A quick look at Dean reminded me I needed to cover the fact that any second, Dad would figure out something was wrong with him. Because I prided myself on going to ridiculous lengths for my brothers, I motioned for Dean to come closer. "Hey - lemme check you now that we have some light."

Dean's eyebrow rose. _What the hell are you doing?_

_Trust me, big brother._

Dad looked between me and Dean. "What's wrong?"

I made a show of checking over Dean's neck, his eyes, etc. "We were stuck in a closet that had some blankets, and I'm pretty sure they were covered in cat hair."

Both Dean's eyebrows were up, now. _Holy shit, you're brilliant._

I gave the back of his neck a quick squeeze. _I know...I'm amazing._

It worked. Dad's whole face transformed with concern. "I was wondering what happened - are you okay?" He didn't do his own physical exam, apparently my moderately bullshit one satisfied him.

Dean swallowed hard, running a hand under his nose. "Yeah...just... _H'hih-tschchh!_ Yeah. I will be." Throat cleared, he slumped his shoulders, sniffling miserably, throwing in an agitated eye rub. For once, instead of acting, he just had to be honest about how he felt.

Dad dug into a pocket. "Well, I found this," he held up a gold cufflink, "in the pipes. Looks like your idea panned out, Kate." He gestured at Dean before shoving it back in his pocket. "Let's get you back to the room so you can shower and take some Benadryl. I'll take care of burning it."

Without pausing, he went to the back door, peering outside before opening it and motioning us us through. "I got a couple leads on hunts that are sort of near Bobby's. Thought we could swing through Sioux Falls on our way and restock."

The door clicked shut behind us, and we all glanced in disgust at the sky, still drizzling, with an added bonus of wind.

As soon as we hit the cold air, Dean let loose sneezing, followed a forceful string of coughing. He was bent at the waist, unable to move until the whole thing was finished.

Hand on his arm, I blinked cold droplets of water out of my eyes, flashing Dad a quick look. "Maybe steroid infused cat hair, huh?" I added a little laugh, because there was no reason to be worried, because he totally wasn't sick, it was just an allergic reaction.

Absolutely nothing to suspect, here.

Hands on his knees, the combo fit left Dean gasping for air. Slowly straightening, he opened his mouth to deliver what I bet was a truly witty comment, but instead, his hands cupped his face, his head reared back, and, " _Hih-'Ts_ _ **CHCH**_ _Yuu!"_ He staggered back a couple steps, until Dad set a steadying hand on his back, shaking his head back and forth.

"Double steroids. C'mon - back to the room."

**xxxxx**

Even though Dean was given permission to be sick, when we were back on the road, he fought every sneeze, stifling or just plain forcing them to back down. It didn't matter that we were _all_ wet and cold and shivering, begging the Impala to fire up her heater. He wouldn't allow his exposed weakness to gain any more ground.

In the motel lot, Dean left the car before Dad fully had her in Park, room key already in his trembling hand. Dad turned to me, his right arm spread across the front seat. "Get him cleaned up and full of allergy meds. He needs to sleep this off. I'll pick up some supplies on the way back."

"Yessir," I answered, opening my door. _Jeez_ , like I needed to be told what to do.

"Oh, and Kate?"

_Fuuuuuuck...he knows…_ "Yeah?"

"Bag up his clothes. We'll wash them when we get to Bobby's."

_Ohhhhh_. Laundry. _Duh!_ "You got it." I practically ran to the room.

Dean was trying, unsuccessfully, to get out of his wet clothes. His mouth hung open, breaths catching and hitching, nose dripping, whole body shivering. One arm was caught in all the fabric, and the other couldn't decide if it should wipe his face, cover his nose for the sneeze that was now, _awesome_ , stuck, or do something else entirely, like, deal with the shirt.

The whole thing was going on while Dean twisted in circles, this way and that.

Complete clusterfuck.

Quickly determining that stopping to take a picture or video for Sam wasn't the nicest option, I hurried over, ceasing the dog-chasing-tail fiasco. "Hold on...lemme help!"

He pulled away, and for a second, irritation flooded me, until he broke into a round of sneezing.

I shoved some Kleenex into his one free arm. "Here..."

Dean blew his nose one handed (such talent), then submitted to my superior fabric untangling skills. "Thingk he dose?"

Raising an eyebrow, I deftly freed his other arm, hauling the shirt over his head. "Do I think he knows what?" I asked, snagging a spare blanket off the couch, to drape around his shoulders.

Dean burrowed into it, sniffling into a fresh batch of tissues. "That I'b sick." He stopped there, coughing into the blanket.

Oh, Dean, why would you think that?

"I dunno...he seemed to buy the allergy bit." Remembering the shower, I went in the bathroom, twisting the knob towards hot, hoping there'd be lots of steam and good, steady pressure. "It doesn't matter right now - he's torching that cufflink, you got a pass for being a mess, and we'll be at Bobby's tomorrow. We can keep you sleeping on Nyquil, he'll think it's Benadryl, and it'll be fine."

It _wouldn't_ be fine - I knew that. If Dad didn't figure it out, Bobby would. Bobby _always_ figured out the shit Dad couldn't.

But, hey, it didn't matter to _me_ if they found out.

I gently shoved him toward the shower, setting his duffel bag on the closed toilet seat. "Get warmed up. I'll have pills waiting when you're done."

He nodded, already undoing his pants.

"Hey Dean?"

He looked up.

"Make sure you, you know, wash off all that cat hair," I mimed washing movements, giggling when he kicked the door shut in my face. At least he still had a sense of humor.

" _HhhhHHH'_ _ **HRSCHHH**_ _Uhhh! Goddabbit!_ "

Well. _Some_ of his humor.

**xxxxx**

The shower did the trick, both good and bad. Dean emerged pink cheeked and smelling nice. He also emerged sniffling and coughing from post-nasal drip, the steam having loosened everything in his sinuses and chest.

Only one light was on, giving the room this warm, cozy feeling, despite the slightly stale, threadbare aura it usually emitted. Gelcaps and one Benadryl (wasn't gonna lie to Dad) were waiting with a glass of water, and I wished there was tea or soup or something more appropriate than beer to go with it.

And no, whiskey didn't count.

Luckily, there was enough medicine left for one more dose in the morning. I'd get Dad to stop at a store or mini-mart on the way out of town, so I could grab some more. Even though he said we'd stop at Bobby's, it wasn't uncommon for some emergency hunt to crop up, derailing our plans. Last thing we needed was to be on an impromptu hunt without meds.

Dean swallowed the pills eagerly, smothering another sneeze into some tissues.

"In bed. _Now_." He didn't even blink - he just nodded, crawled in, and huddled under the blanket.

Made my heart just _melt_.

" _Heh-hih'HetSCHEW!"_

Whoa, there! That was on _my_ pillow!

Heart _un_ melted.

"Jesus, Dean, you have Kleenex in your fucking _hand!_ "

" _Hhh-_ _ **IHSCH**_ _CHuhh! *sniff*_ I'b sorry - I forgot." He flopped onto his pillow, rubbing his nose and sniffling pathetically.

_Dammit!_ Heart melted _again_.

I sighed. "No big deal." Already in my pajamas, I turned my pillow over and climbed in after him. I set the TV to a cooking show, and checked my phone. No word from Dad, yet. Beside me, Dean yawned, stretching his six-one frame until his back popped. Being mindful about how crappy he felt, I resisted tickling him.

A couple seconds later, he snapped back into a fetal position, sneezing.

Rolling over, I pressed my hand against his forehead, keeping it away from his nose blowing. "You're sneezing a _lot_. Maybe there _was_ something lingering in that house."

Dean shook his head as he dumped used Kleenex onto the floor, helping himself to a fresh clump. He blew his nose, taking a tentative breath afterward. "Ndo...I dodn't thingk so." He swiveled droopy, teary, dark-rimmed eyes up at me. "I'b pretty bad, huh?"

I bit my lower lip, running my hand down his cheek to his neck. "You still don't have a fever, which is good, and maybe you just seem worse because it's night and the other meds have completely worn off." I sighed, watching him close his eyes and swallow painfully. "Yeah...you're pretty bad."

He sighed back, pushing closer until his head rested on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around him. "Yeah," was all he muttered.

We snuggled on the bed, him for comfort and warmth and me because I needed to feel helpful. It wasn't much later that Dean passed out, mouth hanging open, producing soft snores mixed with congestion.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I heard was the sound of rustling plastic and a beer can popping open. The fuzzy form of Dad sluggishly came into focus, unpacking bags at the table.

Yawning, I swung my legs off the bed, carefully extracting myself from Dean, who was sleeping peacefully. "Hey…"

Dad glanced up. "Hey, there. Didn't mean to wake you."

I shrugged, making my way to his side. "How'd it go with the cufflink?"

"Not too bad. Dumped it in an old furnace, heat full on. It's toast, like Charlie Yearling."

"Nice. What'd you get?" I nodded at all the bags, which were full of -

Dad blushed a little. "Oh, uh, the med kit's low, thought I'd resupply it. Got Dean a couple things in case he needed them."

Boxes of Kleenex, more Benadryl, Nyquil, DayQuil…

Nyquil? _DayQuil?_ Oh, _shit…_

He saw me eyeballing the cold medicine, and started stammering, picking up the two boxes of capsules. "I, uh, my throat started hurting yesterday. Probably from that dip in the river. We were almost out of medicine anyway." He sort of sniffed, shrugging like he was embarrassed, shoving everything into the kit.

Awesome... _two_ of them. Dad sick was worse than a Sam and Dean combo platter. Still...I could use this to Dean's advantage. "I didn't know you don't feel well. We should definitely stop at Bobby's for a couple days." I kept my eyes on the Kleenex box I was opening, trying to appear casual. Nodding at the open beer, I added, "You should get some rest."

Dad chuckled, rubbing one eye. "Yeah, I know. It's almost five. Go back to sleep. I have a couple things to finish, then I'll go to bed."

See what I mean? It's no wonder where Dean gets it from.

"Dad…"

Dad put a hand on my head, affectionately jostling me back and forth. "I'm fine, don't worry. I won't stay up much longer."

I snorted, ducking out of reach, and headed back to the bed. Almost five? That meant he'd been gone for almost four hours. I watched him as I crawled in next to Dean. He looked tired, but it _was_ almost five in the morning. He cleared his throat, sipped his beer, and began writing in his journal. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Beside me, Dean snuffled into his pillow, pushing close with a shiver. I settled down, and fell back asleep.

**xxxxx**

It felt quite a bit later when I woke. I hadn't looked at a clock or even opened my eyes. I just knew - most of the day was gone and buried.

Yawning widely, I stretched, making one of those grunty noises that accompanies whole body efforts. That's when I realized - I was alone in bed.

One eye opened, and sure enough, Dean's side was empty.

Second eye opened, and awesome - Dad's bed was empty.

This kept getting better and better.

I sat up, wrestling my hair off my face, just as the door opened and in walked both Dad and Dean, shaking water off their shoulders with arms laden with coffee and bags of food.

"What's going on?" I asked, admittedly a little irritated. First off, how did I not hear them get up, let alone leave? Second of all, why did they leave me here, sleeping?

Pushing aside insecurities, I tossed off the blanket and walked over, trying to gauge how Dean was doing, what the hell happened, and whether I would be a bitch and not eat due to principles.

My stomach rumbled, and principles were tossed in the can.

Dad set the bags of food on the table with a sigh. "We overheard some people talking at the diner. Turns out my little fire fest last night didn't do the trick. Another death this morning."

Well, _crap_.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Three in the afternoon," was my answer. Dad began rooting around his duffel. "I'm gonna go to the scene, interview some people, figure out what happened. You two go to that house and take one of those tours. There's one in forty-five minutes. See if you can learn anything else about old Charlie that could be helpful. Where _the fuck_ are those socks?"

While Dad's back was to us, I nudged Dean. _What the hell?_

He sighed, nodded at Dad, then rolled his eyes. _Had no choice._

I tilted my head. _Feeling better?_

His eyes flickered to Dad before taking my hand and holding it to his cheek.

Warm. _Really_ warm.

_Fuck_.

"I'm gonna clean up real quick, get into my suit. You guys are gonna play the part of a tourist couple. Try to come up with something. His spirit is pissing me off. Now where's my _tie?_ "

"Check the green bag," I answered absently, my eyes locked on Dean's flushed, exhausted face. I bit my upper lip. _Meds?_

He nodded, shrugged, and held up three fingers. He couldn't take meds for another three hours? And he still has a fever?

_Double fuck._

"There they are. Okay - eat up, then get ready to go. I'll be out in a few." Dad brushed past and into the bathroom, muttering about needing new pants or something.

As soon as he turned on the water, I let out the breath I was holding. In a rushed whisper, I asked, "What do you mean you had no choice?"

Dean pulled his coffee out of the cardboard carrier with a sigh and a short cough. "Woke up to take a piss an hour ago, and he was awake, wanting food. I was gonna wake you but he said to let you sleep." He gave me an apologetic look. "I _know_. I'm sorry."

I waved him off, reaching for my bag and a hairbrush. One cannot fight the tide that is John. "Forget it. I'm more worried about you. Did you have to take more Benadryl? When did this fever start up?"

Dean sat in a chair hugging his coffee, turning a little so I could change in "privacy". "Took Dayquil, actually. Dad said we were out of Benadryl, so I took the cold meds. Lucky break, huh?"

_Um…_

I thought back to earlier that day. Dad _bought_ Benadryl. So... _huh_.

Deal with that later. Bigger fish and all that.

Dean sipped his coffee. "So... _temp_ , but the sneezing is under control and I can breathe, so I'm calling it good. Let's get this ghost before more people die. "

The bathroom door opened just as I pulled my shirt down. Dad was all spiffed out in his suit, his face radiating annoyance. "All set?" His tone was clipped, but I knew it wasn't directed at us.

Grabbing the food and a coffee, I nodded.

"Alright. Text when you're done."

**xxxxx**

I shoveled down breakfast/lunch in between sips of coffee while Dean drove back to the historical monument. One knuckle remained pressed against his nose, sometimes rubbing back and forth, while he steered one-handed.

"Hey...you good?" I asked, jutting my chin at him.

He sniffed, dropping his hand to his lap. "Yeah. Nose itches. That's all." He sniffed again, wrinkling his face.

This time, we parked in the lot. "Well, it's now _two and a half_ hours until more medicine. So…" I didn't bother finishing the thought.

"Yep," was all he said.

We walked in, got tickets, and waited with the other tourists for the show to start. I found myself rocking back and forth, tapping the rolled-up cheap brochure against my palm. Dean had his game face on - back straight, eyes alert, ready for a fight. His shoulders also trembled occasionally, he sniffled a lot, and his face kept stretching and scrunching, until he finally started scrubbing back and forth across his nose.

Just before the guide started talking, Dean's shoulders raised, almost squeezing together as he smothered a breathy sneeze into his jacket.

"Oh, _bless_ you, sir!"

I knew that voice…

How did I know that voice?

"Alrighty! Hello everyone! My name is Martin Teisberg. Welcome to the Yearling homestead. I'm essentially in charge of all the historical buildings in this area, but this one's like my baby. There's something about this house that I absolutely love."

Oh, _JesusChrist_. I wondered where the woman was.

I threw Dean a look, and he quickly turned away, chuckling. The chuckle morphed into a cough, which he swallowed, his hand back to hovering by his face.

We followed, lingering towards the tail end of the crowd. Beside me, I could hear Dean inhale in ragged, staccato bursts. They all ended with a breathy exhale, and a vigorous nose rub, like he wanted to rip it off. He was getting eyeballed by some of the tourists, and even the Penthouse Tour Guide was giving him funny looks.

"Dean…" I whispered, taking his arm by the elbow.

He huffed, pulling his arm out of my grasp, flashing a classic _I'm fine, geez!_ glare. Holding up a finger, so I'd wait, Dean's wrist immediately pushed against his face. Sniffling, he wiped his nose and pushed me in the direction of the departing tour group. "Combe od…"

Fine.

Rolling my eyes, I trailed behind the crowd up the stairs, and down a hallway. Sniffles and muffles followed me, ending abruptly with a choked snort. Looking up, I realized we were standing outside the notorious bedroom from the night before.

Dean elbowed me, nodding at the bed. Oh look - they cleaned up. The room was spotless - no sign of kinky role playing anywhere. The guide didn't miss a beat, continuing to drone on about the furniture and the legacy and the whatever. I should've been listening more closely, but a whole wall full of photos caught my eye.

I glanced at Dean. _Go ahead - I'll check this out._

His eyes followed mine, and he started to nod approvingly, but his breath caught at the last second and, " _Hhh'Kshhh!_ " was my answer instead.

Yanking him close, I muttered in his ear, "We are _soooo_ taking a few days off when this hunt is done." Without waiting for _that_ response, I pushed him toward the group and marched into the room.

It didn't take long to figure out who was Charlie Yearling. A handsome, older guy was in almost every picture, often with a striking elderly lady who I assumed was his wife. The photos chronicled their lives, and I immersed myself in the imagined stories behind each picture.

One photo in particular struck me. The couple looked incredibly happy, beaming for the camera while each holding something in their hands, like it was a trophy prize. My imagination extrapolated that she had given him a gift, and they were displaying it for the camera. Looking closer, my heart sped up. They were holding cufflinks - cufflinks that matched the one Dad found in the pipes.

A quick scan of the other frames confirmed that those cufflinks were pretty important - he was wearing them in every picture. Making it more interesting, in a couple photos, she was wearing one like a brooch.

Oh.

_OH!_

Holy shit!

I spun around to find Dean, and immediately bumped heads with him as he came barreling into the room, apparently to find me.

"Ow! Shit, that hurt!"

I don't know which of us said it, but we both reeled back, rubbing sore foreheads and trying to not laugh and be pissed at the same time.

"The wife!" I blurted.

"She has the matching cufflink!" He blurted.

We stared at each other.

"Where is she?" I asked, noting that a small lump was forming on my head.

"Yeah, that's the sucky part. She's dead, buried in the local cemetery." He paused for effect. " _With_ the cufflink."

"Wait, _what?_ "

Dean nodded, already pulling his phone to call Dad. "You heard me. Cabana boy said it was a family heirloom that was lost for a couple generations, and Mildred, the wife, was able to track them down. She gave them to Charlie as a gift."

_Ding_. "Look at this," I said, pointing to the photos. "Mildred's wearing one in this picture, and in others."

"Awesome. Let's call Dad and take care of this... _hih'_ _ **Hschh**_ _yuu!_ "

Neither of us said anything. Dean pulled his jacket closed, massaged the bridge of his nose, and sighed. "C'mon."

**xxxxx**

Dad was elated to learn we'd have to dig up a body in the rain to check for a small piece of jewelry. I kept running through ways to get Dean out of it, or at least out of the rain.

There weren't any.

Now, we had to wait, _again_ , until it was dark so we could sneak into the cemetery and start digging. We managed to get another round of pills into Dean and I pocketed extra everything just in case.

Time passes at a snail's pace when you're waiting for the late night to arrive. Luckily, we were able to hang out in the room, packing all our gear. Sometimes, if we knew we'd have to blow town immediately afterwards, we'd wait in the Impala. No TV, no bathroom, no nothing.

No fun.

When everything was packed up, I positioned myself on the bed between Dad and Dean, so Dean's movements were hidden from Dad's watchful eye. I had no idea how Dad didn't figure out that Dean was sick. Cold medicine was good, but Dean was beyond simple cold pills. His fever still lingered at the annoyance level - not high enough for concern, but not low enough for him to function unscathed.

We were watching TV, as usual, with Dean nodding off intermittently. Around nine, Dad checked his wallet, swearing.

"What is it?" I asked. Dean roused himself to lean on one elbow, pretending to be alert.

Dad shook his head angrily. "Money's really low." He checked his watch. "Slight change in plans. I'm gonna hit the bar for a few hours, earn some money. You guys get us packed up. We'll leave town right after that cufflink is burned."

_And if it doesn't work?_ I swallowed that down, and just nodded my head, knowing Dad had a problem waiting around for shit to happen. This wasn't the first time he'd done this, and it wouldn't be the last.

The Impala rumbled off, and Dean flopped on the bed, groaning.

I looked down. "How're you doing, cupcake?"

He lie there, blinking at the ceiling, contemplating how to answer.

"Tired." He yawned.

"Achy." He grimaced, wriggling on the bed.

"Cold." He shivered.

He sniffled, looking up at me with fucking Sam Eyes.

I sighed. I _hated_ those Eyes. They always made me do stupid things, like keep pretending Dean could dig up a grave in the cold rain. "This is like the forest preserve hunt all over again." I began ticking off items on my fingers. "Before we go out there, you're gonna need layers of clothing, extra meds, I think there's a hat buried in the trunk somewhere, and - "

Dean cut me off, rolling over and burying his face into my side. He didn't care what he needed. I had to figure it out, and he'd do whatever I said.

Bad sign.

Huffing, I arranged a blanket over us, tucked him in, and settled down. His head rested on my shoulder, the rest of him curled up so he would fit. Eyes on the TV, I threaded my fingers through his hair, smiling when he nestled closer. When the occasional shiver rippled through him, I rubbed his back and arms until he stopped trembling.

Maybe...maybe I could tell Dad anyway, without Dean knowing. Dad would bench him, Dean would think he just figured it out, and he wouldn't catch pneumonia again. Maybe…

Something ice cold pressed against the skin on my back, making me yelp. " _What the fuck?!_ " Dean had shoved his hand underneath me. "You fucking asshole! Your hands are freezing!"

Chuckle-coughing, Dean gripped harder. "You're warmb," he murmured, right before twisting his face into the pillow and sneezing. "I'll be okay. It's just a cold. We'll get this hundt over with, thend I'll deal with it." He sniffed thickly, blinked back tears, and massaged his nose, which was now a dark shade of pink.

With one arm trapped under me, and the other attacking his nose, there wasn't a third limb to grope for Kleenex. Deciding that my shirt wasn't a good replacement tissue, I grabbed a bunch, thrusting them at him.

I rolled a little so he could easily extract his arm and blow his damn nose. Frowning, I felt his forehead, which was now warmer, despite the medicine from a couple hours ago. I also noticed a change in his sneezing. They were more forceful now, a bit urgent, and I suspected -

"Owwww…"

...painful.

The plan to rat him out forgotten (again: The Eyes made me do stupid things), I repositioned, making sure his hands weren't going to shock me and that the Kleenex box was within easy reach.

Once comfortable, he fell asleep.

Not wanting to be ditched again (insecure, much?), I did my best to stay awake, even though Dean was really warm, the lighting was low, and the time was late.

I did my best, but I was pretty sure I passed out anyway.

Luckily, Dad's texting woke me up.

**omw back. heavy rain coming. get ready. 20 min.**

Heavy rain? Aw, shit.

Groaning, I jostled Dean awake. "Hey...time to get up and go digging for treasure. C'mon…"

Half awake, Dean sat up, coughing and sniffling. His hair stuck up and there was drool on the left side of his face.

Wait...that meant…

I checked my shirt. Giant wet spot above my boob. _Awesome._

"Ooooo-kay. I need to change, you need to get bundled up and full of more meds. Dad'll be here in twenty."

Nodding sluggishly, Dean weaved to the bathroom, took a long piss (he should've shut the door all the way), and eventually emerged looking…

"Dean, you look terrible." He did, he totally did. No amount of cold water splashed onto his face would erase the obvious exhaustion, fever splotches, red nose or overall droopiness that enveloped him.

He flapped a hand in my direction, making his way to the med kit on the table. "Pffft. 'b find. Just deed a little…" He broke off, coughing. "...bedicind. I'll be good." Lethargic, uncoordinated movements made a mess of the kit, as Dean blindly rifled through it for the box of pills that sat on top.

Clean shirt on, I marched over, snatched the box and pulled out three pills and a thermometer. "At least let me get a number."

Dean shook his head, coughing through lips pressed tightly together. Holding out his hand, he motioned for the pills. "Doesn't batter. Got a fever, ndo surprise. Dose mbe up and let's go."

_Goddammit…_

Pills swallowed, I crammed him into two t-shirts, a sweatshirt, Sam's old zippered hoodie and his jacket. I also made him wear pajama pants under his jeans. He'd just finished emptying his sinuses of more gunk than I thought possible when the Impala returned, joined by a boom of thunder.

_Shit_ \- I should've asked Dad for coffee. That might've given Dean that extra boost of warmth and caffeine.

"What is it with you being sick and hunting in the rain?" I hissed, pulling up the hood over his head before shooing him to the table.

"Watch your shoulder," he hissed back, right before Dad walked in...carrying a beverage tray full of large cups.

"Hey," he greeted, his eyes sweeping over us, thankfully not lingering. "Got us coffee for the fun."

Oh…

_Huh…_

Dean eagerly grabbed his, smiling after the first sip. Remembering his congestion, I spoke up. "Thanks, Dad. It's perfect."

Dad shrugged. "Sometimes I hit it right. Okay, let's move."

We hauled our crap to the trunk, making mental rude gestures at the sky after the next round of thunder and lightning. The rain hadn't started, but you could feel it coming. This wouldn't be a shower, it was a definite storm.

"So...how'd you do?" I asked, setting my duffel beside the med kit.

"Do what?" Dad said, taking the bags from Dean. "Hey - get in the backseat and start pulling up directions for Oak Hill Cemetery, off route forty-nine."

I followed Dad back in the motel for the rest of our stuff, practically shoving Dean into the car and out of the wind. "At the bar?" I prompted, not sure why he didn't get what I was asking.

We shouldered the remaining bags, and I caught Dad's expression. It was the same one he wore when I found the cold medicine in the shopping bags. Embarrassed, like he got caught doing something.

Uh oh…

"Oh, yeah. Did fine. We're all good. Come on, the faster we do this, the less he'll be in the rain." He held open the door, and I walked through.

Usually, Dad liked to talk about the pool table scams. It taught us what to do, watch for, be wary of, and made it easier when we were with him. Plus, he loved to - _hold on_.

Hold the fuck on.

_The less_ _ **he'll**_ _be in the rain?_

Dad wouldn't meet my gaze, instead immersing himself in shoving our stuff into the trunk, while making sure the shovels, salt, and accelerant were accessible. My eyes flickered through the back window to Dean, dutifully hovered over his phone, looking up coordinates in the backseat, wiping his nose and swallowing the coughs that threatened to give away what had apparently already been given away.

"C'mon…" Dad prodded me toward the passenger door, steadfastly striding to his side, and opening the door. Over the hood, our eyes met.

He knew.

He knew I knew.

He knew I knew that he knew.

He also knew I wouldn't say a damn thing, to either of them.

Through his open door, we heard Dean sneeze. Twice.

Dad's mouth quirked in the corner, _It's okay_ , and he got in the car.

Well...okay, I guess?

The rain hit the second I closed my door, startling us. Dad started the car, casually turning up the heat, like he was changing a radio station. "Got the directions?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah," he...croaked. Oh, _Christ_.

Dad didn't miss a beat. "Great - tell me where to go."

No comment on Dean's voice, no mention of his condition, nothing. I swallowed down some coffee, and before Dean could say anything else, I said, "Pass me your phone - I'll do it. You should down that caffeine. You'll need the energy for digging."

Dean handed me his phone. "You're helpin', girl." I got a quick hand squeeze as I took it.

Snorting, I retorted, "I'm a delicate flower, Dean. Can't wilt this. Turn left, Dad, and take the frontage road to route thirty."

Nodding, Dad put the car in gear, and we pulled away.

**xxxxx**

The rain relentlessly beat against the car, distorting our view of the road. Dean huddled in the back seat, downing his coffee and generally keeping quiet. We all ignored the occasional sniffle or throat clear. I bet Dean thought no one noticed, but I saw Dad swallow, every time he made a noise. Not irritated, more concerned.

Interesting.

We pulled into the grounds, straining to read the markers that led to the grave. Once parked, Dad tapped the steering wheel a few times, and I saw the gears turning. He didn't have a chance to say anything, though, because Dean slapped his thighs and opened his door. "Let's get started." And with that, he left the car.

Dad shared a look with me before opening his own door, and stepping into the rain.

By the time we reached the grave, we were soaked, even though the rain somewhat backed off, dwindling to a steady, solid drizzle. Dean shivered so hard, his flashlight bobbed erratically across the ground. I had no idea how he would manage to hold a shovel, let alone dig.

I laid a hand on Dean's back, steadying his wobbly legs. He leaned against me for a second, before righting himself with a sniffle.

Dad wiped the water from his face and dropped his pack to the ground. "Kate - stand watch. Dean and I will get us started."

Nodding, I took Dean's flashlight, wincing when he bit his lip to keep his teeth from chattering. His eyes met mine.

_I'm good._

Of course you are.

It was slow going. It started off pretty good - freshly medicated and pumped full of strong coffee, Dean made really good progress. But after twenty minutes, he was losing steam.

Fast.

Unable to stand it, I intervened. "I'm freezing just standing here - lemme have a turn." Dad nodded, breathing too hard to properly answer. He lugged another shovelful of wet dirt onto the growing pile, and nudged Dean.

My sodden brother stood still a second, torn between needing to stop, and needing to prove himself. Dad leaned on his shovel, gasping. "I'm gonna need a break soon, so rest up before you have to take over for me."

Well played.

Dean climbed out of the one-foot deep hole and took the flashlight. When Dad resumed digging, I stole a quick forehead check. Lightning flashed, and Dean's face lit up - drawn, pale, exhausted, and still really warm. The meds weren't helping.

He turned away, sneezing into his bandana. He wiped his face, and shoved me toward the hole.

I leapt inside, and began digging.

Over the next fifteen minutes, the rain completely stopped, which honestly was a little worse. The wind picked up, chilling us all and making Dean's cold more pronounced as the sneezing picked up, until he barely tried to hide it.

Digging up a grave is strenuous when the dirt is dry and loose. It's a hundred times worse wet and clumpy, with cold air finding its way down your neck every minute or so. After another half hour, Dad leaned against the side, which was now a good three feet deep. "Need a break," was all he said.

Dean hopped in, Dad crawled out, and within ten seconds, a gust of air hit us in the face. The shovel slipped from Dean's grasp as he let loose with a string of sneezing the left him breathless.

Fuck, it left _me_ breathless.

I rammed my shovel into the dirt, holding Dean up as the sneezing was followed by a grating cough. What worried me more, was that he leaned on me, right there, in plain sight of Dad. I could feel the fever on his skin, now hot and climbing.

No one spoke. We just stood there, panting, catching our breaths and gearing up for the rest of the dig.

That's when Dean rasped, "What's that?" He pointed to the tombstone.

Tombstones were getting fancy nowadays, available with holders for flowers, little shelves for knick knacks or tiny shelves set into the marble. Dad shined his flashlight on the marker, and there, embedded in the stone next to Mildred's name, was the cufflink, gleaming in the light.

"Son of a bitch," Dad muttered. I breathed a laugh, hugging Dean, who just coughed into my shoulder.

**xxxxx**

While Dad took care of the cufflink, I took Dean to the car. He could barely walk, leaning heavily against me every step of the way.

"Hey...we done pretending now?" I asked.

He sneezed.

I kissed his hair. "I'll take that as a yes."

He wiped his nose on my sleeve, just to be an ass.

I got him in the car, and under a blanket. "Stay here. I'm gonna help Dad."

He sneezed again.

"Right. Be back soon."

Dad was chiseling at the tombstone when I returned. Grabbing a shovel, I said, "I'll take care of the mud." His eyes flickered to me before nodding and going back at it.

Did I mention that the mud was heavy? Because it was. It really was.

I had only a foot left to fill in when the temperature plummeted, turning our breath into vapor, swirling in the air before us. Next thing I knew, Dad was flung from the stone, flying into a nearby tree.

"Dad!" I yelled, diving for the shotgun filled with salt rounds. A spirit materialized by the tombstone, eyes full of malice and crazy. Not pausing for a breath, I grabbed the gun, firing right into it.

With a shriek and a dramatic set of sparks, Charlie's spirit dissipated, but I knew it was only temporary. My heart screamed at me to check on Dad, who wasn't moving, but my brain kicked in, and I went for the cufflink instead. Dad made a lot of progress - the thing was practically dangling off the marble slab.

I felt a cold rush of air on my neck, and I knew I couldn't turn and shoot in time.

A shotgun went off, the spirit shrieked again, and the temperature returned to the normal cold of the evening.

"Get the cufflink!" Now I did turn around, and there stood Dean, sawed off shotgun cradled in his arms, eyes blazing, despite the fever raging through his body, looking every inch a hunter.

One more whack with the chisel, and the ornament fell free. Cold, numb fingers fumbled with the salt and accelerant, and I wondered, as I tried to light the fucking match, whether this would work, given that Dad tossed the other one into a furnace.

My doubt must've shown on my face, because Dean stumbled to my side. "It'll work. Just do it."

"Wipe your nose," I snapped, irritated that the hesitation was visible to one who shouldn't even be able to stand, let alone shoot a gun.

He snorted, thickly, passing a sleeve over his face, his eyes everywhere, gun primed.

"Stand back," I ordered, needing the confidence that comes with being able to boss people around.

I lit the match, and promptly dropped it, as something slammed into my stomach, sending me into the edge of another tombstone.

" _Kate!_ You motherfucking sonofabitch!" Vision was a bit of a luxury at the moment. Everything was fuzzy and covered in bright points of light as pain exploded across my back. My ears were fine, however, and I clearly heard the shotgun fire, the hiss of the matches, and warmth slammed me in the face.

The spirit wailed again, and all that remained was the intense heat practically scorching my face.

How much fluid did I put on that cufflink?

"Jesus, Kate - how much shit did you pour _*sniff*_ You okay?"

I pushed him off. "Dad…"

"Dad's fine...he's moving." Dean scooted, slumping next to me, adrenaline rush completely spent. "Christ…"

"Kate? Dean?" Came Dad's groggy call.

"Over here - Kate took a hit. You okay?" Dean's voice cracked, a body-wrenching cough doubling him in half. I clumsily patted him on the back, grunting as the movement sent a ripple of pain across my shoulders.

Dad called back, "Yeah...got the...got the wind knocked outta me...that's all…"

Dean and I snorted in unison. He probably had a concussion, maybe bruised ribs.

Through squinted eyes, I was able to see Dad hobble our way, his eyes already assessing our damage.

"Help me up," I gasped, struggling to find a foothold or a handhold or any kind of hold.

Together, Dean and I got to our feet. We all stood there, looking at each other - beaten, sick, cold, wet, hurting - then we burst out laughing.

When Dad's chortling turned into him clutching his chest and groaning in pain, we figured it was time to go.

We grabbed our stuff and teetered back to the car, each of us needing another to lean on, but if that happened, who would carry the salt? Hands full, Dean sneezed feely toward the ground, using his sleeve as Kleenex.

Once everything was thrown into the trunk, we climbed inside, impatient for the Impala to heat up.

The vents shot air straight at Dean's face, and he sneezed forcefully.

Not making eye contact, Dad handed over Kleenex. "Bless you."

Dean took them with a sigh, and we left town.

**xxxxx**

We pulled into a gas station about half an hour later, taking turns changing into dry clothes and popping pain pills galore. Dean wasn't able to take anything for his cold yet, so he was kind of screwed. While Dad was in the bathroom, I took Dean's temperature from the back seat.

One hundred-one.

"Well, you have a nice, healthy fever, now." I tossed the thermometer into the mini kit and leaned against the front seat. Putting any pressure on my back was a gigantic no-no, so leaning forward it was.

Dean blew his nose. "Still saved the day."

"Yes, yes you did."

"How bad's your back?"

"How bad's your cold?"

"Don't be ad ass."

" _You_...don't be an ass."

" _Kate!_ " Oooh, through a clenched jaw, no less.

I sighed. "It hurts, I'm fine. More worried about you." Running my fingers through his hair, I peeked out the window for signs of Dad. Seeing none, "You were fucking badass, you know."

Over a cloud of tissues covering his nose, Dean's eyebrow rose. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I smiled.

"Huh." He blew his nose again, snuffling into the tissues. He tucked the wad into a plastic bag on the floor, ducking his head with a smile.

We had about four hours until Sioux Falls, and Dad decided, of course, to gun it. I stayed in back with Dean where I could sit comfortably with access to the sick kid trying to sleep while breathing through his mouth.

Dean's fever climbed, but stopping in a crappy motel wasn't going to be helpful. So Dad and I ground our teeth against the jarring ride, dreaming of a hot shower and our beds.

Bobby was waiting on the porch despite the late hour. He ushered us in, gently barking orders and examining us all with muttered curses masking worry and concern.

I loved him.

Dean got to shower and crawl into bed first. By the time I was ready to collapse, he was fast asleep...in my bed.

Really?

Whatever. I slowly crawled in next to him, lying on my stomach because of the swollen bruises. One arm splayed across his chest, our legs a little tangled so I wasn't flat on my front.

Just before drifting off, I realized...if he sneezed, I was fucked.

**xxxxx**

The next morning, I woke alone in my bed. I shook the cobwebs from sleep and pain pills, pulling myself up to go to the bathroom. From the window, I heard movement outside, so I walked over, and took a peek at the yard.

Dad and Dean stood near the Impala, and a black GMC truck.

"So whed are you leaving?"

Dad's leaving? Seriously? Bathroom forgotten, I hovered at the window out of sight, blatantly eavesdropping.

"Later today."

Dean nodded slowly, walking down the length of the truck, fingers tracing the frame. "Is this because I'b sick? Or because I screwed up with the bunyip?"

Oh, Dean...

Dad shook his head. "Neither. You're not in training anymore, son. Haven't been for a long time. I think...I think working with me makes things...complicated."

My breath caught.

All the plans that left Dean in a warm motel room at the last minute, the medicine, even choosing beef stew instead of burgers to eat...he knew all along that Dean was sick, and trying to hide it.

That _we_ were trying to hide it.

Dad laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You're a good hunter, Dean, and you have a good partner. I think that in order for you to be great, you need to feel like your dad's not watching your every move. There's nothing you need to prove to me, son. I know you're good. I know you're serious. I know you're dedicated."

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched. "Because you trained me."

Dad clapped him on the shoulder. "Fuck _yes_ , that's why." They laughed, me joining in from the second story. "Seriously, though. I'm proud of you." He pulled a piece of paper from the front of the truck. "Here's her title, signed over to you. Take care of her...of both of them."

Dean's forehead creased as he nodded, taking the proffered paper. "I will, Dad. Thanks." He shivered, pulling his jacket closer.

Dad's lips pressed together. "Yeah, get inside and warm up. I'll be right there."

Dean nodded again, took a couple steps backwards, then turned and came inside. Dad sighed, arms folded across his chest, and looked up at my window. I pushed aside the curtain, and smiled at him.

_I'll take care of him._

_I know you will._

**xxx end xxx**


End file.
